Saying it in Your Own Words: How to Fly a Spaceship for Dummies
by torq
Summary: Oliver and the new intern might fall for each other - if they don't kill each other first. (Language, suggestive content.)
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: The book series the characters discuss is made up, because I realized the author of the real science fiction series I intended to allude to is against fan fiction and although their work is merely mentioned in this story, I felt it might be safer and more professional to change the names. Also, Oliver Wells is not an option in the character drop-down menu – that is the only reason he isn't tagged as a character._

The sun was up, there was a brand new victim in the lab, and Dr. Oliver Wells had plenty of string cheese in his lunch bag. There was nothing, not a single thing, that could throw him off his A-game that day. At least that was what he thought, until the gears of his unperturbed morning came to a grinding halt. Almost in slow motion, he saw her for the first time, reading a list of the victim's found belongings to Dr. Brennan off of a clipboard. Her silky hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed it back behind her ear, only for it to fall again. Dr. Brennan said something (he was momentarily unable to hear anything but his own pulsing heartbeat, or he would have thought something of it), and she smiled, handing over the clipboard. The beautiful angel in the oversized Jeffersonian shirt disappeared into another room.

"Oliver? Ollllliverrrrrrr…."

Once she was out of sight, he came to his senses abruptly on the forensic platform. "What?"

"You okay, dude?" asked Hodgins.

Angela smirked behind the large camera lens as she photographed everything meticulously. "She's cute, isn't she?"

"I don't know who you're talking about," said Oliver. He bent his head over the bones.

"Her name is Georgia," said Angela, continuing as if he hadn't spoken. "She's sort of like an extra intern, but with a lot more fetching of lattes and a lot less examination of corpses."

"Why would Dr. Brennan need another intern?" Oliver shot back. "I'm more than sufficient."

"There's plenty of stuff she can do that won't injure your pride." Angela snapped a few more photos of the remains.

"Booth says he wants all of us to take a break so he and his people can go over all the remains with special spectrographic equipment," said Cam, dropping her cell phone back into her pocket.

"How long is that gonna take?" Hodgins protested. "What if there's no live evidence by the time they're done?"

"I highly doubt that their equipment is better than our equipment," objected Dr. Brennan.

"It's a request from the FBI," said Cam. "I don't like it either. Here they come."

A team of FBI personnel marched into the Jeffersonian with briefcases of equipment. Everyone on the platform went elsewhere.

Oliver pulled off his non-latex gloves and escaped into the room he had watched the new girl enter. At first it looked like the room was empty, but then he heard someone turn a page of a book. He peeked over the bone examination table, bare for now and with the magnification equipment shut off. In the back corner of the bones room sat Georgia, cross-legged with a book in her hand. "You shouldn't read that," he said.

She jumped and hit her head on the wall behind her. "Ow, holy shit," she moaned. "Who are you and what is your problem?"

"I'm Dr. Oliver Wells and you have to read _Song of the Children_ first, or else _The Shadow_ doesn't make any sense," he said, crossing his arms.

"I'm re-reading the series for the fourth time," she said sharply, rubbing the back of her head. "I can practically recite _Song of the Children_."

"Do it," he said. "Unless you were being hyperbolic." She raised her head slowly and fixed him with a look of utter disbelief.

"Hyperbolic," she said, tucking her book under one arm and brushing past him on her way out of the room.

Oliver stared at the corner, now empty, for several seconds. The thought that the exchange could have gone worse was followed by a mental image of a burning airplane wreck.

The next morning at five o'clock, Georgia balanced two trays of to-go coffee cups as she attempted to push the door open with her shoulder. She was really tempted to go out and buy a rolling cart.

"Thanks," she said to the man who held the door open for her.

"Do you need help?"

The voice was familiar. She looked around; it was the douche from the bone room the day before. "Not from you," she said.

"It's not my fault you don't say what you mean," he said.

"We both know my meaning was never an issue for you," she retorted. "I know your type; you just enjoy the rush of being smarter than everyone else. It's an adrenaline high."

One of the trays slipped and, just as she opened her mouth in a dismayed O, he lunged forward to catch it.

"Hand it over," he said. After their shared moment of panic, they were suddenly standing very close together. Again, his heartbeat was like a drum in his chest. Logically, he knew she couldn't hear it, but he felt vulnerable, like everyone in the whole building was listening to the sound of his blood circulating.

She looked up at his flushed face, and he looked down into her big green eyes, and slowly without taking her eyes away, she relinquished her grasp on the tray. Her lips were slightly parted, as if they didn't know what to say. It seemed to take her immense focus to eke out the words, "Be… careful… with that."

"I will," he said, lost in a fog, staring at her lips, not even paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth.

Then, she looked away, and the fog lifted. He was carrying a tray of to-go coffee cups. How peculiar.

"Coffee, anyone?" Georgia called out to the people milling around the forensic platform. A grateful team of Jeffersonian forensic scientists emerged from the crowd of FBI forensic squad members.

"You're a life-saver."

"I'm so glad we hired you…"

"Actually," said Oliver. "I carried one of the trays about one sixth of the way and held the door open, so technically, I brought about one eighth of your coffee."

"Give it a rest," said Georgia. "Literally no one cares."

Oliver rounded on her, arms crossed. "What about me? I injured your pride yesterday so now I don't count as a person anymore?"

"No," she sighed. "If you had been paying attention, you'd have noticed that you regularly injure your own pride and fail to notice." Angela looked like she was holding back a peal of laughter.

"That doesn't make any sense," said Oliver. "No wonder you don't have any credentials."

"Talk to me again before 11am and you'll fit in one of those evidence bags," said Georgia.

"If you could get away with murder inside the Jeffersonian, I'd be interested to see."

Cam looked on with a mixture of amusement and sheer horror as she sipped her coffee. It had been two days. TWO DAYS. Not even Oliver could make an enemy in two days, right? …. Right? She sincerely hoped they would get over whatever their problem was, if only to eliminate the mountains of paperwork necessitated by the murder of an intern on the Jeffersonian premises.

"Can I ask you something?" said Georgia, putting down her sandwich momentarily.

"Fire away," said Angela.

"Who's the incredible douchebag in the white lab coat?"

"Oliver Wells," said Angela and Hodgins in unison.

"Wow," said Georgia, picking at her sandwich crust. "Sounds like he's got a track record."

Hodgins said, "He's rude, he's selfish, he - OW!"

Angela elbowed him. "Oliver just doesn't know how to talk to people," she said, ignoring Hodgins trying to communicate confusion via facial expression.

Georgia bit back a laugh. _Married_. Definitely married, and if not, they should have been. "So he has no social skills. Is that why he won't stop staring at me?"

"No, that's because he thinks you're hot," said Angela.

Georgia blushed a tiny bit. "Oh." She flashed back to the miraculous lack of coffee spillage that morning while she and Oliver were busy staring into each other's eyes. Nobody needed to know about the beat her heart had skipped that morning. "I hate him," she declared, and took a big bite of the sandwich in her hand. Angela and Hodgins exchanged a look.

"Those two are a bomb waiting to explode," said Angela, peering at Georgia and Oliver through Dr. Brennan's blinds.

"I assume that the bomb and resulting explosion are metaphors for something," said Dr. Brennan.

"Look at them," Angela pressed, pointing at Georgia and Oliver through the blinds. "They drive each other crazy."

Dr. Brennan squinted. "They appear to be arguing."

"They're _always_ arguing." Angela rolled her eyes. "That's the point. Who needs to argue that much?"

"Perhaps they dislike each other."

"Or they really like each other," said Angela. "Who knows? We could be going to their wedding next." Or, at the very least, they'd have wild sex in the Egyptian artifact storage room.

"That is illogical," said Dr. Brennan. "Why would two people who argue all the time fall in love?"

"What about you and Booth?"

"Booth and I eventually came to a mutual understanding of the necessity of both of our jobs," said Dr. Brennan. "We never argued like that."

"That's probably because neither one of you is Oliver Wells," said Angela.

Meanwhile, by the railing leading up to the forensic platform, the conversation had taken a nasty, if literary, turn. If they had known they were being watched, they might have picked a different topic to yell at each other about. Georgia might have, in any case. It was pretty well documented that Oliver had no shame.

"If you think Jordan Beckett was the ultimate super-soldier, I've got news for you," said Oliver. "He cracked under pressure in command training."

"Yeah," said Georgia. "Because he was nine years old!"

"Fitting, since the task at hand was child's play." What was everyone's deal with the age ranges? There was nothing shocking about a small child piloting a spaceship. He knew _he_ was smart enough to command an alien-hunting space fleet at the age of seven.

"You're kidding, right? The whole point of that book was that he never should have been piloting that fleet," she retorted.

"Yeah, because Donald would have done it better," he said.

"Donald was just a really smart little kid," said Georgia. "Not a natural leader."

"So you're saying you have to be a natural leader to function as a leader in any capacity?" he said.

"No," she argued. "I'm talking about this context specifically and the comparison between two specific characters"-

"But you think Jordan would have beaten him if they were both in command school at the same time, just because he was charismatic?" said Oliver.

"Yes!" she cried. "Jordan beats Donald for commander any day of the week because he inherently understands team dynamics, knows how to recognize other people's strengths, and"-

"He's better because he has a specific set of social skills," Oliver interrupted. "Not because he's smart. That's what you're saying."

"Wow, maybe if you stopped interrupting me, you'd hear what I'm actually trying to say," said Georgia.

"You think social skills trump intelligence," accused Oliver. Okay, maybe he was starting to take it personally.

"What, you mean outside the context of a fictional work by Jana Marie Sayer?" she said, confused.

"Yeah, like what about the lab?" he said. "Dr. Saroyan is in charge even though Dr. Brennan is clearly more intelligent, and also me. Why? I don't get it."

"Dr. Saroyan is in charge because she has leadership skills," said Georgia. "Anyone can see that. Man, I'd hate to be in your book club."

"Intelligence counts for nothing with you?" said Oliver incredulously.

"Intelligence is worth nothing if you don't know what to do with it in the big picture."

"What about me, then?" pressed Oliver.

"Oh, you don't want to go there," said Georgia.

"Maybe I do."

"You're really close to my face," said Georgia softly.

It was true. Somehow, while they argued, they had managed to inch closer to each other until their noses were mere centimeters from each other. His brow was furrowed, like he was staring at a problem he didn't understand, and her eyes were wide and confused, like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh," breathed Oliver, but forgot what she'd said.

"Maybe… we should... back up," whispered Georgia.

"Sorry, what?" murmured Oliver.

"I said… I said get out of my face," Georgia snapped suddenly, pushing him away from her and running off, leaving Oliver standing alone at the base of the forensic platform, still trying to figure out what had happened.

"See?" said Angela. "They fit better than they realize."

Dr. Brennan pursed her lips. "I don't know about that."

Angela kept an eye on the Egyptian artifact storage room for the rest of the day. You never knew when people were going to drop all semblance of professionalism at the Jeffersonian, especially in terms of mixing work with personal affairs.

"Have you ever had an inappropriate work romance before?" Oliver tugged on a pair of sterile gloves. It was an odd feeling. There was so much tension, and body heat, and brain fog, and -

"Yeah," said Hodgins. "Don't know if you've noticed, but my wife works ten feet away. Why?" He eyed Oliver, who was bent over the remains, although he didn't appear to actually be looking at them.

"No reason."

Hodgins laughed. He could practically see Georgia's name written on Oliver's forehead. "You two are a disaster waiting to happen."

Oliver twirled a magnifying glass between his fingers absentmindedly. Georgia was proving to be an incredible distraction. He was hypnotized by the memory of the scent of her hair. It smelled like vanilla. He imagined his hand running through that hair, how soft it would be, how she'd roll over in his bed and look at him with those big green eyes. He dropped the magnifying glass with a loud clatter on the forensic platform but the thought of retrieving it was eclipsed by another daydream. Perhaps she was having similar thoughts.

"Dr. Wells, please pick up that magnifying glass before someone trips on it," said Cam.

As he did so, he cast an eye towards Hodgins. He was going to need some advice… tomorrow. First, he had to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't handle this himself.

Georgia was sorting some of Angela's computer files. Angela was adept with technology, but for some reason, her desktop was a random mishmash of murder-related content and pictures of her kid. How the woman got anything done on this machine, Georgia couldn't fathom..

"Hey."

Georgia jumped.

"Sorry," said Oliver, standing right behind her as she turned around. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm just here because I have something I need to ask you."

"What?" she said, through gritted teeth.

"We should have sex," he said bluntly.

"First of all, that's not a question," she said. "And second of all, no, we shouldn't!"

"Why not?" he probed.

"Third of all," she said, and then she said something else that was profane and descriptive and sent Oliver out of the office with his tail between his legs.

He'd ask Hodgins tomorrow.

"There's this great hiking trail Angela and I went to a while ago," said Hodgins. "It's pretty romantic around this time of year. The colors are amazing, there are lots of great birds, and I got a ton of interesting samples while we were out there."

"Do you think I should take her hiking?" said Oliver.

"I think it's worth a shot. The place is great; I'll email you directions!"

"Okay," said Oliver.

On his way out of Hodgins's office, lost in thought about Georgia, he bumped into her forcefully. She fell to the floor and dropped the plastic bag she was holding.

"Watch out, Oliver," she shouted, shoving him away when he tried to help her up. "This is evidence, for crying out loud! You're lucky it's in a plastic bag!"

While she was retrieving the victim's (thankfully insulated and intact) wallet, he said, "Do you want to go hiking with me this weekend?"

"Not in a million years," she said, smoothing off her dress and picking up her dropped cell phone. She pushed past him to deliver the wallet to Hodgins.

Oliver returned to the forensic platform. They had a lot of bones to examine.

He and Dr. Brennan were comparing bone and tissue damage when Georgia happened to walk by the platform. Oliver set down the human remains and leaned over the rail of the platform. "Georgia! Hey, Georgia!"

"What?" She sounded about as enthused as a funeral attendee.

"Why don't you want to go hiking with me?" he called.

"Dr. Wells, your focus should be on these human remains," said Dr. Brennan sternly.

"Just drop it, Oliver," said Georgia. "You should be working. As much as I'd love to watch them fire you."

"You like me," he said loudly. "Everyone else in this building knows it, so why can't you just admit it? You like me! Go find your hiking boots, because we're going hiking together, because you like me!"

"There is not one true clause in that statement," Georgia deadpanned.

"Dr. Wells," called Dr. Brennan. "I have two other interns who are also available today if your divided focus is a problem."

He looked back at Dr. Brennan, and when he turned back around, Georgia was gone. The mental footage of the airplane wreck was playing again.

The next morning, at exactly eight o'clock, Oliver popped into Angela's office.

"Hi Oliver," she said, warily. "What do you need?" She had just arrived at work, like she always did at that exact time.

"Advice," he said. "Non-work-related."

"Okay, shoot," she said, knowing exactly what this conversation was going to be.

"Georgia doesn't like me."

"Georgia is her own person," said Angela. "If she doesn't like you, then she doesn't like you."

"But I think she does," he protested. "I've been talking to Dr. Sweets, and he says she might admit that she likes me if I picked the right first date."

"Sweets is pretty good at profiling murderers, Oliver," said Angela. "But his working knowledge of women leaves a lot of room for improvement."

"Look, I just need a push in the right direction," he said. "People keep saying you have a vast but approximate knowledge of human behavior and, as little as you know about actual science, I find that you are usually the one to dispense practical knowledge of emotional affairs."

Angela, ignoring the backhanded compliment, looked him up and down. "You've never been on a date before," she concluded out loud.

"You don't know that," said Oliver, looking around to make sure nobody heard. "How can you know that?" he said in a strained whisper.

"There's nothing wrong with that," said Angela, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Can you help me or not?"

Angela sighed. "Ask her for a drink or something. Something casual. No pressure. Tell her she looks nice, let the conversation flow, and you're probably good to go."

"Thanks." Oliver walked out of the room.

"You're welcome," said Angela to the empty space. She returned to the bright screen of the missing persons' database.


	2. Chapter 2

Georgia was eating an apple and absentmindedly watching numbers scroll across Angela's massive computer monitor while Angela was out to lunch. "My office is your office as far as I'm concerned," Angela had told her. "Let me know if you need anything." Angela was nice. She was different from everyone else at the Jeffersonian in a way that had nothing to do with her lack of forensic degrees. She always seemed to take things at her own pace, rather than being suspended in a constant state of panic over making sure Dr. Brennan got this or Cam saw that. She was never in a hurry, and by taking her time, she always got the job done.

"Georgia?"

There went peace and quiet. "What, Oliver?" She tossed the apple into the waste basket.

"Oh good, you're not busy," he said. He looked around the room, glancing at the data rendering on the big screen. "Let's go out for a drink!"

She stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Tonight!" he added enthusiastically.

"No way," she said.

"Why not?" he pressed.

"Go away, Oliver." She pushed him out of the way and walked out of the office.

"It defeats the purpose of telling me to go away if you go away first," he yelled after her.

He was about to turn around and walk out after her, but something white under Angela's couch caught his eye. He knelt down to take a look and found a sheaf of rolled-up papers. He unrolled the papers and took a look at the drawings. Some were of Donald and Jordan from the books, flying space ships and in various combat poses. The rest were of his own face. The first page was riddled with studies of his jaw and forehead, and the next few pages were covered with sketches of his eyes and nose. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror. The last page had three drawings of his whole head. On one of the couch cushions, there was a pink pencil case labeled "Georgia" in curly script. He turned over the last page. In the corner, in the same script, was written, "Three Studies of Giant Dickbag," and the date.

"I don't get it," said Oliver. "I have a gut feeling about this, and I never have gut feelings."

"Maybe it's time to leave well enough alone," said Cam, not looking away from her computer screen.

"Look at this," he said, holding out several sheets of copy paper.

"These…" Cam looked over the sketches in brown pencil. "These are exceptional drawings of you." She handed them back. "So, you discovered a mirror. It was only a matter of time."

"No," he said, snatching them back and stuffing them into his pocket. "Ignoring the snark. I didn't draw these; Georgia did. They were on the floor of Angela's office, hidden under the couch."

"Now you sound like a stalker," said Cam, not looking away from her desktop monitor. "Why are you still in my office?"

"I need advice," he cried, and threw up his hands. "Hodgins was wrong, and Angela was wrong. What do you think?"

"Give her flowers. Flowers are pretty. Get out of my office," said Cam. "A haiku from me to you."

"Actually, a haiku is a poem comprised of"-

"Out," she interrupted.

He left.

"The victim's jacket pockets were full of wildflowers," said Oliver. "But he was found at a construction site."

"Did he put them there when he was alive, or were they put there postmortem?" asked Cam.

"The FBI was wrong to keep this evidence from us for so long. These flowers could tell us where he was before he died," said Dr. Brennan. "Georgia!"

Georgia came running. "Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Please take these to Hodg"-

"Flowers for the lady," interrupted Oliver, handing Georgia a tray of crumpled, dried flowers splattered with brown blood flecks.

"Blood-splattered evidence," she said dryly. "Good to know my suitors are getting creative."

Cam snorted but passed it off as a cough.

Dr. Brennan looked miffed at having been interrupted. She turned around and went back to the bones.

"Straight to Hodgins," Georgia assured her.

Oliver stared after her as she left the evidence platform.

"You know, Oliver," said Cam, as soon as Georgia was out of earshot. "I think it's nice that you're trying to be nice to Georgia."

"I'm sensing a 'but,'" said Oliver, picking up skull fragments with a pair of forceps.

" _But_ ," said Cam, predictably. "You might be laying it on a little thick."

"You said I should give her flowers," he protested.

"And you did," said Cam, haltingly. "You gave her... dead… crime scene… flowers…"

"Actually, Dr. Saroyan, most cut flowers die quickly," said Oliver. "A vase of water doesn't provide" -

"Can we focus on the body?" interrupted Dr. Brennan. "And besides, Dr. Wells, from what I have observed, Georgia does not seem to be remotely interested in your flowers, dead or alive," she added.

That shut everyone up.

Georgia walked the evidence to Hodgins's room. All the terraria and the lush, green plants made it feel a little like walking into a small rainforest. "Hey Hodgins," she said.

"Hey Georgia," he said, staring into a fish tank. "Is Oliver making any headway?"

"No," said Georgia sharply. "And honestly, I don't think he likes me that much."

"But look how hard he's trying!" said Hodgins, kneeling with his back to Georgia to feed his fish.

"But he's not, Hodgins," she said. "He's just doing in sequence whatever you and Angela tell him to do! He shows no initiative to find out anything about me - what I like, what I want, what I care about." She pointed to the tray in her hand. "Brennan wants particulates. These were in the victim's pockets. There's blood spatter."

Hodgins took the tray, still peering into his fish tank. The fish tanks were swimming with tropical fish in every color and pattern. "I think he cares about you."

Georgia sighed. "He's just trying to win the game, like always. That's classic Oliver Wells, right? I'm not wrong. He doesn't care nearly as much as you seem to think he does." She turned around and inhaled sharply as she ran directly into Oliver.

"Dude," said Hodgins, alarmed. He stood up slowly, canister of fish food in one hand and evidence in the other. "How long have you been standing there?"

Oliver stared at Georgia with baleful eyes.

"Ugh, of course..." Georgia kept walking.

Oliver watched her go. "What am I doing wrong?" he said.

Hodgins blew air between his lips. "I think you need to talk to her about that." Oliver seemed to share Zack Addy's tone-deaf approach to courtship.

It was dark outside. Most of the lights in the lab were either dimmed or turned off. Georgia sat curled up on the sofa in Angela's office going through surveillance photos. She heard a minute noise and, this time, didn't have to look up to know who it was. "What do you need, Oliver?"

"I want to know what I'm doing wrong."

"What do you mean?" she said, squinting at a few photographic subjects that turned out to be the wrong person.

"I have been trying to make a connection with you," he said bluntly. "And every time I try, you just get angrier and angrier."

She looked up at him, finally. His hair was more of a mess than usual and the skin under his eyes was purplish. "You should go home and sleep," she said.

"Please."

She hesitated. He was so disheveled. "Why are you polling the entire Jeffersonian? You're talking to everyone but me."

"Last time we talked, it was a disaster," said Oliver apprehensively.

"So you give up on yourself entirely?" she said, throwing down the file and standing up. "You can't make a connection if you're trying to be someone else."

"Angela says I'm a douche and Daisy says I'm self-absorbed," he said. "I'm socially incompetent and nobody likes me."

"And what do _you_ think?" she said, yanking on her messy ponytail in frustration. "You'll never know what you're capable of until you stop waiting for everyone else to tell you."

He looked at her, and she glared back, still tugging at her hair. "You're mad at me."

"Of course I am," she said. "And I'm mad at everyone else too."

"Why?"

"This should be our problem." She gestured between them. "But now the whole lab is placing bets."

He watched her pull the elastic out of her hair and restyle it. "Do you like flowers?" he asked quietly.

"No," she said. "They clutter up your place and then they die. What's the point?"

"Do you like going out for drinks, then?"

"I don't like alcohol," she replied.

"Neither do I," Oliver admitted. "What about hiking?"

"I hate bugs and I hate walking through foliage," she said. She crossed her arms.

"What _do_ you like?" He stuffed his hands into the pocket of his lab coat.

"Cupcakes," she said, throwing up her hands. "And punk music, and looking at the stars."

They looked at each other. The silence was heavy with words neither of them knew quite how to articulate.

Then, she said, "You should go home, Oliver. It's late."

"Are you saying that because you care about my sleep schedule or because you want to get rid of me?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Because if I help you go through this, it'll go twice as fast and we'll both get home." He gestured at the bluish surveillance photos all over the floor.

She narrowed her eyes. "Really?"

"Well, it's basic math"- he began, but she cut him off.

"I wouldn't mind some help," she interrupted.

"Then I don't mind staying," he said.

They sat down on the sofa and cut the piles of manila folders into two stacks, and then they each took one.

They were silent. The work wasn't difficult, since all they were looking for were snapshots of the victim entering and leaving the club, but it was tedious. There were 1,012 individual photographs in front of them. After an hour, they had only gotten through two hundred, respectively, and they had only found two blurry photos that they agreed _might_ be the victim. The folders of photos were starting to pile up on one side of the couch.

"Excuse me," said Oliver as he reached across her for the nth time to put another folder on the pile. His breath smelled like cinnamon.

"Do you buy your lunch in the cafeteria?" she blurted out.

"Yeah, it's pretty inexpensive," he said. "Why?"

"Your breath smells like their cinnamon rolls," she said. Her face heated up. Why did she have to break the silence? The silence was going so well.

"Probably does," was all he said.

She watched him flip through a few photographs before something occurred to her. "Wait a minute, it's been like…" She did some math in her head. "11 hours since lunchtime."

"So?" he said defensively.

She laughed. "You've been snacking. You must have some sweet tooth."

"It's a constant struggle," he said. She was still laughing. "Why is that funny? I don't get it."

"It means the lecture you gave everyone on processed sugar the other day was complete bullshit!" She laughed even harder as his face turned red.

"So I have a vice," he said over her convulsive giggles. "One vice!"

They continued to examine the photographs. "I'll never tell," she murmured.

He forgot to respond. He was entranced, watching her smiling and laughing.

"Maybe I didn't give Donald enough credit," said Georgia. She got up and stretched. It was getting pretty cramped on the sofa.

"How so?" said Oliver. He yawned, watching her.

"Jordan probably wouldn't have tried to save my ass by going over photos for hours," she admitted. "Donald was always the hard worker of the two. You may have won this round…"

"I'll ridicule you tomorrow," said Oliver, extending his hand to her and pulling her back onto the couch with him. He smiled at her exaggerated reluctance to return to the tiresome task at hand. "If you want to go to sleep, I can finish this," he said quietly as she shifted around to make herself comfortable again.

"No way am I letting you take all the credit," she objected.

Later, when she wasn't looking, Oliver stole a third of her pile of photos. She was too tired to notice.

Another hour of silence went by. They found three more shots of the victim. Around midnight, Georgia started to rub her eyes. She found her gaze lingering on him. He kept licking his lips.

She got a water bottle from a vending machine and handed it to him without a word.

"Is this a reward for good behavior or something?" he joked.

"If I had you captive, you'd know it by now," she retorted.

 _You do_ , he wanted to say.

At 12:30, she dozed off and fell sideways onto the stack of folders. Oliver put his arm around her and pulled her against his chest instead.

Georgia was jolted briefly awake when she fell on the hard edge of a pile of manila folders, but drifted off again, warm and safe against something comfortable and solid.

Oliver sighed and settled into Angela's sofa. No more work for tonight.

He wanted to do something. He thought about it carefully - was it something Hodgins thought he should do? No. Was it something Angela had suggested? No. Did he want to do it? Yes, very much so.

He kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, I guess," he whispered.

He'd had six cups of coffee and three pieces of string cheese. He stared at the wall, mind unable to calm down and switch off, for another 45 minutes before he fell asleep too and dreamt that Georgia was the one held prisoner and that he had to solve puzzle after puzzle to rescue her. At one point he got so close that he thought he could touch her, but when he put out his hand, all he found was an expanse of a cold brick wall, stretching endlessly in all directions. Georgia dreamt of a warm bed and a faceless lover.

Angela jogged into Hodgins's office the next morning, gesturing urgently for him to follow her.

"Honey," said Angela, pulling on Hodgins's sleeve. "You have to come see this."

"What, in your office?" he said.

She shushed him. They tiptoed into her office.

"Oh my god…" whispered Hodgins.

"I don't think they went home," mouthed Angela.

Dr. Brennan entered the room at a brisk pace. "Angela, I need"-

Both Hodgins and Angela shushed Dr. Brennan. She looked taken aback, until she saw what they were pointing at. Oliver and Georgia, both in cramped positions, slept draped over each other on Angela's sofa, surrounded by piles of photographs.

Dr. Brennan whispered, "It appears as though Dr. Wells attempted to help Georgia go through the security camera stills, but they were unable to finish the simple task on time."

Angela and Hodgins side-eyed each other. Typical Brennan.

"Ah," said Dr. Brennan, picking up three photos on the side table. "Perhaps I spoke too soon. This could definitely be the victim…" She studied the photo, and then her eyes widened in shock. "I have to call Booth. We have another suspect. When Georgia and Dr. Wells wake up, please tell them I said thank you." The great doctor walked out without another word.

"Is this a Kodak moment or what?" said Hodgins.

"Take a picture if you dare," said Angela.

Georgia stirred and uttered a sleepy, "Hmmm." into Oliver's lab coat. She opened her eyes and realized three things in succession: 1) It was morning. She hadn't gone home, 2) She was practically in Oliver's lap (How had that happened? Oh god.), and 3) Angela and Hodgins were staring at them.

She sat bolt upright, frantically trying to fix her hair. Oliver mumbled and opened his eyes, waking up with the same violent jolt. "Oh crap," he said, rubbing his neck.

"You think?" retorted Georgia sarcastically.

He tried to help her with her hair. She attempted to wave his hands away but finally conceded. He braided it on one side. "Thanks, she mumbled."

Hodgins cleared his throat.

"Yeah, compromising position," said Georgia. "Blah blah blah." She stood up, smoothed some of the wrinkles out of her shirt, and started putting the files back in order on the squeaky metal cart the FBI had sent them.

"Well, I have some… uh… bugs to play with," said Hodgins, making his exit immediately. He kissed Angela and escaped.

"I can get you guys some coffee if you want," said Angela, trying her hardest not to laugh.

"What time is it?" said Oliver, rhetorically, since he looked at his watch. "Oh man, it's 10:30. I'm late." He leapt off the couch and ran to the investigation platform, vaguely recalling the dream he'd had and suddenly wishing he could go back and touch her hand. Something about the puzzles in the dream had him on edge for the rest of the morning.

Georgia put the last file into the cart and yawned deeply. "The coffee is my job anyway."

"Now that this couch is clear," said Angela, taking a seat. "Sit back down here and tell me what happened."

"Nothing," protested Georgia. "We were going over surveillance photos."

"It ended with you two sleeping on top of each other," said Angela, one eyebrow raised.

"I don't remember that part," Georgia confessed. It was all a little murky in her head after midnight. "Do you think everyone will stop betting on us when they find out we woke up on your couch together?"

"Debatable," said Angela. "Your hair actually looks really nice that way; who knew Oliver was a cosmetology expert too?" She laughed. "Let's go to the ladies' room and I'll fix your makeup and stuff, alright? No one will be able to tell you slept with Oliver last night. So to speak."

"Thanks, Angela…" She felt the braid he'd done. He'd parted her hair exactly where she did. She couldn't help wishing, as Angela whisked her off to the restroom, that she and Oliver had woken up alone.

Georgia lay on her stomach on the floor of the rare gems exhibit, highlighting addresses and phone numbers from the victim's cell. "Are you sure you don't want to use the computer?" Angela had said before leaving for a doctor's appointment.

"I don't feel comfortable using your computer without you around," Georgia had replied. It was sort of an excuse.

"Okay, I'll see you in a couple of hours," Angela had said.

"Good luck!"

The light reflected and refracted from the gems was soothing, and hiding in a closed exhibit gave her a few minutes alone.

Blissfully, finally, alone.

"Georgia?"

 _Damn it._ She whipped around. It was Oliver. "Can I help you?" she asked. The surprise entrances were really starting to get on her nerves.

"I know I should have woken you up last night so we could both go home," said Oliver. "That would have been the logical thing to do."

"Why didn't you?" snapped Georgia. "Everyone already thinks I'm useless and unnecessary - as if they needed another reason."

"Even if that were true, which it isn't," said Oliver. " _I_ think you're important."

She barked a laugh.

"What? You don't think I value you?" he said.

"You don't value anyone," said Georgia.

"Wrong!" retorted Oliver, sitting on the floor next to her.

Georgia just shook her head.

He slid a roll of papers over to her. He stared at a crystal in one of the display cases. This was it - he would be lucky if she'd ever look at him again.

Georgia sat up. She unfurled the papers - her drawings, Oliver's face interspersed with sketches of sci-fi characters, with an added pen doodle of her own serene, sleeping face. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she said softly, tracing the ballpoint pen sketch with her finger. The lines were meticulous, the shading precise. It looked like he'd spent an hour on it. She suddenly wished she could see herself through his eyes.

He hesitated, composing his thoughts. "I kept telling myself, ten more minutes. Ten more minutes. And then I'd wait ten minutes, but you looked so beautiful in REM sleep, so I'd wait another ten minutes." He was starting to see spots from the glare off the crystal.

Georgia tried to muster some anger, an ounce of spite. But she forgot what she was going to shout.

"Are you going to yell at me some more?" Oliver said, tentatively, sneaking a peek at her.

She was looking at him already. "Maybe later," she said. "I kind of like arguing with you."

"Me too," he confessed.

"What are you doing later?" she said quietly.

"Arguing with myself," said Oliver. "Probably yelling at myself internally. I've been doing that a lot lately."

"I'm free tonight, if you want someone to argue the other side," said Georgia.

She reached out her hand in the dark. He didn't take it. "This is the part where you hold my hand or something," she said.

"Or something," said Oliver, and rolled over so he could put his arm across her stomach.

"I think I like it when you come up with your own moves," said Georgia.

"This isn't a move. I'm tired," he said. "Next time I ruin my sleep schedule sorting surveillance photos with you, I'm just taking you home."

"Or something," said Georgia.

"Or something," he murmured in her ear, pulling her closer.

"I bought you a box of cinnamon rolls," she said.

"I think I outdid you, as usual," he said, prompting a pointed sigh from her. "I made you a mixtape. Or whatever it's called when it's on a USB."

"Wow, I can't wait to hear what you pirated and stuck on a USB."

"Hey, I'm an expert pirate," he argued.

The sky covered them like a majestic blanket.

"I wonder if they're still betting," said Georgia. Her mind returned momentarily to the lab.

"No, they're done," he said. "I won."

"You're kidding me." She rolled over on top of him, overturning him. "You would bet on yourself…"

He could see her eyes shining in the dark, inches from his face. Looking up at her, it was like she was falling into space. It wasn't rational, but he felt the need to hold on tight.

She grabbed his hand first.


End file.
